Ben’s Archive

Molly | Timmy | Ben | Jean-Pierre | Mysterion

December 31, 2095

Night. Eternal night. One year ago Jeannie and I were playing with Sterling, wondering if he’d make it to midnight. I never understood the true meaning of midnight, though. Not until now. By the archive, to think I wished to stay up. What I would give for some sleep. A real night’s sleep. In a bed. And the sun streaming through the curtains in the morning.

Of course, the signs were all there. It was immediately obvious as soon as they attacked. We should have known all along. I should have known all along. I’m an expert in early 20th-Century history, for the archive’s sake. We had 162 years to figure it out. But, no, that hive. That archive-damned Central Hive, controlling our minds. Making us see what it wanted us to see. We were too weak. All of us. The entire archive-damn species. Too weak in our minds. Even if we had known we were being controlled, would it have made any difference? And now? How many of us left? 1,000? 10,000? 100,000 across the entire globe? Too few against them.

It’s been weeks since we’ve seen a sign of another human being. We four fighting it out together in the eternal night. Chuck Beverley, Andrew Smithfield, Roy Conway, and me, Ben Wilcott. “The Library Four”. I could imagine the book by Dumas fils. The four librarians; rapiers in one hand, muskets in the other. With big, fluffy, feathery tri-cornered hats, teamed up against the formidable “madame”. But no. Perhaps books in one hand? Our Alpha-3′s on the other? How on Earth could we four stand up to an entire alien invasion? By the archive, we’ve spent our entire adult lives in the library. None of us would have survived otherwise. Thank the archive this year’s national conference was in the Twin Cities and not in Los Angeles, like the year before. But that was months ago.

We learned how to fight. And we learned how to survive. Until Christmas, that is. Dear archive, what a horror that day was.

We had teamed up with a group from Jackson, MS. How they made it to Nebraska, I’ll never know. Lincoln had been abandoned months ago. We had picked up cross-talk on our Alpha-3′s about a fortification in Storm Lake, IA, three hours by car from any major city. Of course, now there were no cars. Well, there were cars, but they may have been one-ton hunks of scrap metal for all the good they did without fuel. The Four Librarians had made it on foot to Lincoln, trying to head archive-knows-where. Now the choice was to detour 25 miles around the city or head on through. There would be no way of knowing if the Zygonians were still there unless we headed in. Beverley thought we might find some actual beds to sleep on. So we kept moving down US Highway 34 straight to the heart of the city.

We were ambushed near a park. Not by the Zygonians, but by humans. Actual humans. We tried to explain who we were, but they wouldn’t believe we weren’t Zygonians in disguise. They tied us up at gunpoint and walked us slowly towards the center of the city, where they said Reynoldo would take care of us. I didn’t like the sound of that. But before they could tell us any more, there was movement in the trees and the Zygonians were all over us. I’ve never seen more blood. Conway and I were the only ones who made it. I couldn’t tell you how we escaped. Fate?

We found ourselves in an abandoned Payless Shoe Source, just Conway and me, waiting, keeping our eyes open, not daring to move from our position. No radio, nothing. Even my Alpha-3, dead. Until we decided to move on. We stepped outside the building. Everything seemed clear. And then. Click. The unmistakable sound of a foot stepping on a mine detonator. Once that foot lifted, it was all over. Who’s foot was it?

I dared to lift mine, one at a time.

All clear.

Conway’s right foot, clear. He didn’t dare move his left.

The last words I heard him say was, “Dear Archive. No.”

I looked at him for the last time and ran, as fast as my legs could carry me I ran not knowing where. I heard the explosion behind me. The poor bastard had stepped on a detonator. One of our detonators.

If I could get to the main archive, there might be hope for me still.

One grenade left. Happy New Year.